


tomorow never came

by matty_macgregor



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25661449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matty_macgregor/pseuds/matty_macgregor
Summary: Dimitri was beautiful, was the only thing Sylvain could think of. He was beautiful and tragic and Sylvain would have cried with him if he were still able to. Instead, he reached up to thumb away the tears on his prince’s face. He had no idea how to convey to Dimitri that he loved him, that he would always be beside him, that he wasn’t alone. The pain his body felt was nothing compared to the one squeezing his heart at the debauched sight Dimitri presented. It was so unlike his childhood friend to behave this way. How hurt had he gotten to become like this?-In which Dimitri hurts and Sylvain tries to help him the best way he can.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	tomorow never came

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salted_shinju](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salted_shinju/gifts).



> Hello! Thank you for choosing to read this fic!
> 
> Please, mind the tags, there is some rough sex happening. Nothing is described in too much details.
> 
> My sister wanted me to write more Dimitri, so here it is!
> 
> Keep in mind while reading that English is not my first language and that nobody proofread this.

The knocking at the door startled him out of his sleep. Bleary-eyed, Sylvain sat up in bed, rubbed at his face, and got up. It was cold in the room—the fire needed stoking, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about that. Being woken up in the middle of the night usually meant problems. He could feel the sleep dissipating as his nerves awoke with tension. What was happening this time? Was the keep being attacked? Had a nearby village demanded help?

The knocking turned into pounding. Sylvain unlatched the door and pulled it open just as the pounding intensified. The fist slamming against the door nearly sent it crashing into his face. Out of reflex, he caught it before it slammed into his nose.

Dimitri was standing on the threshold. He was highlighted in bright orange by the torch in its bracket on the wall behind him. It threw shadows over his face, but his one blue eye shone bright with a manic fever Sylvain had come to know. He didn’t have time to say anything that Dimitri was on him, hands seizing his jaw and mouth attacking his.

It couldn’t be called a kiss—the thing Dimitri did with his mouth was more akin to biting than anything else. It was a messy affair of sharp teeth with too little tongue and too much spit.

Sylvain staggered back at the assault, taking a couple of steps backward into the room. Dimitri was bigger than him and his monstrous strength meant that a simple tackle was more like being body-slammed. He managed to keep his feet and to more or less embrace Dimitri. His mind, that had been blissfully into the land of dreams two minutes ago, tried to grapple with what was happening.

This was nothing new, their odd affair. It had begun a while ago, after Dimitri had reappeared. Sylvain never would have considered him a potential bedmate until Dimitri came on into him one late night, just as he was doing right now. It had surprised him and left him reeling for days afterwards. Never in a million years would he have imagined his prim and proper childhood friend to be such a devil in bed. It wasn’t love or friendship—it probably wasn’t even lust. It was something Dimitri needed to stop thinking, Sylvain had realised. While most men would drink themselves into a stupor, Dimitri fucked.

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain shushed, grabbing Dimitri’s face and pushing it back a little to catch a breath. “Calm down, Dima.”

“I can’t,” Dimitri hissed. He seized Sylvain’s shoulders in a bruising grip. “You don’t understand…! I can’t sleep! The voices won’t quieten!”

Seeing Dimitri this upset made Sylvain want to cry. Madness was written plain in Dimitri’s face, in his wide unseeing eye, in every tense line of his body. He looked lost, like a child who couldn’t find his way home from a forest. His cheeks were wet and his limbs quivered. His long blond hair was tangled. He wasn’t wearing his eyepatch, a sure sign that he was barely hanging on for he never left his room without it.

“It’s fine,” Sylvain soothed, pushing back dank yellow-coloured strands out of Dimitri’s wet face. “You just need to calm down.”

“I can’t! Please, let me have this! You have to help me…!”

Of course Sylvain would help him. Sylvain could never say no to him, not when he was like this, not ever.

This time, it was he who kissed Dimitri first. He held his face in place and pressed their lips together gently. For half a second, Dimitri didn’t move. His whole body quivered. He was so tense Sylvain could almost hear the groaning of his muscles. Dimitri’s lips were plump, warm and pliant. He tasted of the tea he’d drank before bed, chamomile to vainly help him fall asleep. It worked, sometimes, but, more often than not, it didn’t.

Then, Dimitri kissed him back with a fervour that almost terrified Sylvain. There was no holding Dimitri back, not when he got like this. He pushed Sylvain back towards the bed, hands already tugging at his clothes. A seam ripped somewhere. Nails dug into his flesh that would leave visible marks in the morning.

It was too rough to Sylvain’s tastes. He’d never been a violent man. He didn’t particularly enjoyed fighting, so it made sense to him that he would prefer soft sex. Softness wasn’t what Dimitri craved however, not at moments like these. He wanted to _hurt_ physically as much as he was hurting mentally. Sylvain understood that even if it killed him inside. Dimitri used him to hurt himself, not suspecting the emotional pain it caused Sylvain. He didn’t want to hurt his friend, not in any way. He knew he could have resisted Dimitri if he truly put his mind to it. He wasn’t a weak man himself and he had a Crest he could call upon if needed. But he’d never been able to. Somehow, he sensed that pushing Dimitri back would cause more harm than anything. In a way, it was better that Dimitri came to him rather than to some stranger. Dimitri was a prince, he couldn’t be seen behaving like an animal. There was no telling that the stranger wouldn’t actually hurt Dimitri or, hell, that Dimitri wouldn’t hurt the guy beyond repair. Sylvain wasn’t sure a regular person could handle Dimitri’s strength.

And so he let this happen.

Dimitri pushed him on the bed and climbed on top of him. Sylvain barely had time to catch his breath that teeth were biting at his lips again. Dimitri’s fingernails dug into the skin of his chest roughly, tearing a grunt of pain out of him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Dimitri mumbled between kisses in a strangled voice.

He straddled Sylvain properly, strong legs bracketing his hips. He grinded against him, both of them hard already. It was almost painful the way he did it, crushing Sylvain’s hips into the mattress. The wooden frame of the bed groaned.

“That’s fine,” Sylvain assured. He took in a hissing breath when Dimitri grinded hard against him. “H-hey, Dima, careful, eh….!”

He couldn’t tell whether Dimitri heard him or not. He was too busy taking off his own trousers in a clumsy panic, like he was afraid Sylvain would throw him out if he took too long. His body was hot and heavy atop Sylvain’s. There were numerous scars covering his skin, jagged and uneven. They’d never really done that in broad daylight, so Sylvain had never seen them. He’d only felt them under his fingertips. Each one recounted a lurid tale he had never heard. He didn’t dare ask even if perhaps it would be the right thing to do. He felt that each of these scars was a reproach against him, a proof that he hadn’t been able to protect the pretty blond princeling who’d been his little brother.

Instead of talking, he stretched his arm to reach for the bedside table. With Dimitri on top of him, moving was almost impossible. He scrambled with the drawer and managed to pull out the vial of oil he kept there. Dimitri watched him hungrily, his eye tracking his movements. Sylvain felt cornered, like one wrong move and Dimitri would tear his head off. The thing was, he wasn’t sure Dimitri _wouldn’t_. He had never been able to truly assess the mental health of his friend during moments like these. He didn’t know how lucid Dimitri was or just how tight the voices in his head gripped him. (He considered it a good thing that the dead persons Dimitri heard had been people who had liked Sylvain. They might have suggested he strangle him or something otherwise.)

Dimitri kept him pinned down with both hands on his shoulders. Uncorking the vial and pouring the slimy oil on his fingers took some manoeuvring. Dimitri panted hard against him, hair falling into his face in a dirty blond curtain. He was baring his teeth like a feral thing. Sylvain had to coax him to relax a little to push his fingers into him. Dimitri took them easily, bearing down on them hard enough to send a thrill of pain down Sylvain’s wrist. The angle was wrong and awkward. He couldn’t move as he wished. He’d once tried shifting their position by having Dimitri on his back, but the second Sylvain was on top of him, Dimitri had gone crazy. The ordeal had ended with a bloody nose and a couple of broken fingers for Sylvain, and Dimitri in an agony of tears and frenzied apologies. Sylvain hadn’t tried it again despite knowing it would be much easier for the both of them.

Dimitri didn’t suffer being stretched for too long. After a minute or two, he tugged Sylvain’s fingers out of him and pinned his hand down on the mattress.

“Dima, be careful—”

Dimitri didn’t listen. He never did. He sat on Sylvain’s length in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt without hesitation. Sylvain gasped at the sudden tightening around his hard member. It was both pleasure and pain at the same time. It was certainly too much. He didn’t have time to enjoy the sensation. Dimitri didn’t do slow. He didn’t give himself or Sylvain time to adjust. He rocked his hips up and down immediately, breathing hard, his hands braced on Sylvain’s chest. The pressure made it difficult to breathe, made it difficult to think. Sylvain grasped Dimitri’s hips out of reflex—he knew too well he couldn’t control any of this. It was Dimitri’s show and it was he who decided the pace. Sylvain only went along with it.

Dimitri wasn’t quiet as he fucked himself on Sylvain’s dick. He babbled inanely, muttering things that made no sense. There were tears leaking from his closed eyes. His chest heaved. His muscles bunched. His fingers turned into claws.

He was beautiful, was the only thing Sylvain could think of. He was beautiful and tragic and Sylvain would have cried with him if he were still able to. Instead, he reached up to thumb away the tears on his prince’s face. He had no idea how to convey to Dimitri that he loved him, that he would always be beside him, that he wasn’t alone. The pain his body felt was nothing compared to the one squeezing his heart at the debauched sight Dimitri presented. It was so unlike his childhood friend to behave this way. How hurt had he gotten to become like this?

After what felt like forever, pleasure crested. They came almost at the same time—Dimitri riding him hard for all he was worth and Sylvain torn between agony and relief. Dimitri kept moving atop him, milking his release, one hand braced on the headboard above Sylvain’s head.

Then, with a shiver, he stilled. Neither of them moved as they fought to catch their breath. Sylvain’s head swam with how fast it had ended. He felt as if there wasn’t enough blood anywhere in his body. He was exhausted, boneless. The sting of forming bruises was beginning to make itself know.

Gently, he wrapped an arm around Dimitri’s neck. His body was as tight as a bowstring, quivering under Sylvain’s palm. His skin was hot. There was a thick knot of scars at the base of his skull. Sylvain was careful not to touch it as he coaxed Dimitri to lean down against him. After a moment, Dimitri seemed to finally get the message. He let himself fall atop Sylvain’s chest, pressing his face into his neck. Their heartbeat seemed to synchronize as they both came down from their high. Sylvain combed his fingers through Dimitri’s hair as he held him close. He could feel Dimitri gradually relaxing.

This moment was why Sylvain went through the whole mess in the first place. After a good fuck, Dimitri seemed more at peace, more relaxed. Sometimes, with enough petting, Sylvain could even get him to fall asleep. The morning afterwards he would be calmer, the lines of stress around Dimitri’s eyes not quite as apparent.

Sylvain let his lips trail over Dimitri’s temple, pressing light kisses over his hair. Somehow, this simple act was more intimate than what they had done before. “There, there,” he soothed, keeping his voice low. “I’ve got you, my prince. You can sleep now.”

“I hate when you call me that,” Dimitri mumbled drowsily against his shoulder. Sometimes, when he was truly exhausted, he would sound like the man he had been before—a little naïve, a little playful, a little oblivious, gentle beyond words. It was in moments like these that Sylvain hated himself the most—it reminded him of who Dimitri was, and that Sylvain should be hugging and cajoling and soothing him rather than letting him fuck himself senseless.

“Well, you _are_ my prince,” Sylvain pointed out, “but I much prefer calling you Dima.”

Dimitri said nothing. He made a low sound at the back of his throat that almost resembled contentment. He’d gone completely slack in Sylvain’s arms, a sure sign that he was about to fall asleep. Sylvain waited, petting his hair and murmuring sweet nothings in his ear until he was certain he had drifted off. Then, very carefully, he rearranged their position until Dimitri was lying next to him rather than on top of him. He covered them both with the blanket, uncaring about the mess on their bodies—they’d wash it off in the morning. He kept Dimitri tucked against his side, close enough that he could keep petting his hair. It was a tiny liberty he allowed himself to take after everything—he had a thing for long hair, and Dimitri’s was especially fine. It seemed to help keep him calm, anyway.

Sylvain lied on his back, staring at the wooden canopy of his bed. Everything was eerily silent. The keep slept on, blissfully unaware of the torment that kept its master awake. Everybody knew something was wrong with Dimitri, but nobody knew the extent of it. Hell, Sylvain couldn’t pretend he knew either, only that he was privy to a different side of it. Nobody knew what to do—madness wasn’t something that could be healed with magic or with bandages. It ran in Dimitri’s family too. Some said it was a miracle he hadn’t fallen to it sooner. Sylvain didn’t think it was the same thing—as a child, Dimitri had been perfectly sane. He had been sweet and gentle and caring. Even growing up, before losing his parents, he had been intelligent and calm and poised. There had been no hint that something in his brain might have been unhinged at birth.

He sighed—there was nothing he could do. He wasn’t a physician, he wasn’t a healer, he was a simple knight. Nothing he had at his disposal could truly help Dimitri. All he could do was be there for him to catch him before he sank too deep.

They dozed off together for a while. Sylvain was exhausted and thoroughly wrung out—he doubted he’d be able to even think about bedding anyone for a couple of weeks. Dimitri always left him tired beyond measure. At least it made sleeping after the thing easy, especially when Dimitri decided to stay. Sometimes, he’d leave immediately once they were done. At other times, he remained for a while. Sylvain didn’t know what made him choose either option. He was simply glad when Dimitri stayed. It made sleeping easier, sweeter.

By the time Sylvain woke, dawn was breaking. A thin stream of light oozed in through an opening in the drapes. Everything ached and he groaned as he sat up gingerly. He was alone. He looked at the empty side of the bed, wondering when Dimitri had left. He’d been quiet or Sylvain would have woken up. The sheets were still slightly warm from his body. Sylvain sighed—no morning cuddles, apparently, which was a pity.

He looked down at himself to gage the damage. Blueish bruises had bloomed over his torso. There were eight fine grooves down his chest—two of them had bled slightly. There were bruises on his hips and on the front of his thighs. Even his _dick_ hurt. His jaw was tender where Dimitri had grasped it and his lips were raw from too much kissing and biting. Dimitri really did fuck the same way he fought—mercilessly.

Carefully not to upset anything, Sylvain got up too. He realised with only slight dismay that his bed had been pushed off the wall by a few inches. There was a crack on the wall where the headboard had slammed too hard. For some reason, this made him chuckle. He imagined the old mahogany wood of the bed giving way while they were fucking and spilling them on the floor. He wondered how Dimitri would react to that—no doubt he wouldn’t give a damn and he’d wish to continue. If anyone had told him Dimitri would turn out like that ten years ago, he would have laughed himself blue.

He’d just pulled up his trousers when someone knocked at his door. He didn’t have time to tell the person to wait that the door was opening, spilling in light from the corridor.

“Sylvain, what the hell are you doing? You told me you’d meet me—”

Sylvain froze in the act of tying the laces of his trousers. Felix stood on the threshold, staring at him wide-eyed, one hand still on the latch. Sylvain remembered in a rush that he’d told him he’d meet him on the tiltyard early this morning to train. Felix was a punctual man and wasn’t patient at all. He’d probably waited a few minutes on the tiltyard before deciding to wake Sylvain up in his anger at being stood up.

Felix’s eyes travelled over his half-naked form, taking in the bruises and scratches. His lips trembled in some barely-repressed emotion. For half a second, he looked worried. Then, his features rearranged themselves into his usual scowl. He walked into the room with angry strides to stand in front of Sylvain. “You look like you’ve been mauled by a fucking animal,” he spat.

“It’s not what you think—”

“Shut up! What the hell is wrong with you?! Why do you let that bastard treat you like this?”

Sylvain had no idea how to answer. It was an old argument he knew he couldn’t win. Felix didn’t understand—or didn’t want to understand. “Felix…”

“Are you even _willing_? Does he force himself on you or what?”

The question took him aback. Felix cared for him. He wanted so much to blame Dimitri. He wanted to believe that Sylvain wouldn’t indulge him, that he was an unwilling participant in their prince’s madness. If he said he were, Felix would take up his sword and unleash it against Dimitri. Although Sylvain was flattered that his friend was willing to defend his honour, it hurt that Felix didn’t understand. It also hurt that, when Sylvain told him he was willing, Felix would look so wounded. “He wouldn’t do that,” Sylvain said softly. “You know he wouldn’t, Felix.”

“No, I don’t know he wouldn’t! He’s gone soft in the head!” Felix took a step back, shaking his head. There was something other than rage in his eyes, something closely resembling fear. “One morning, we’ll find he’s strangled you or broke your spine or something. And you’d still be defending him from beyond the grave!” His hands tightened into fists. “I’d punch you if you weren’t already black and blue!”

“Felix—“

“Shut up! I’ll train on my own! Leave me the fuck alone!”

Felix was gone and had slammed the door shut before Sylvain had taken a breath to answer. He remained there unmoving, heart hammering in his chest. Everything hurt so damn much. Everything was so fucking messed up. Sylvain felt as if he were being torn in two between Dimitri and Felix. He knew that, soon, Felix would demand he choose between the two of them.

And the thing was, Sylvain had no idea of the choice he’d make. He loved them both to madness and they both needed him.

He was going to lose one of them. That was inevitable.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on Twitter!](https://twitter.com/mattywriter/)


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